


Buchanan's Steve?

by rowle



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crack, Kinda Crack, M/M, but bucky... um..., i dunno, it's great tbh, it's not really shippy at all tbh, kinda wrecks steve?, maybe? - Freeform, ok not even kinda, ok one of them, um this is from my favorite tumblr post ever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-17 08:43:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8137627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowle/pseuds/rowle
Summary: What would have happened, very briefly, if Bucky had been in the crowd of soldiers Steve gave his award-winning speech to. Set during CATFA





	

**Author's Note:**

> based on this post: http://behindthefourthwall.tumblr.com/post/126190846940/what-if-bucky-hadnt-been-captured
> 
> it's probably very ooc. I'm sorry.

Steve took a deep breath, reveling momentarily in the lack of chuffing before remembering why he was breathing so deep in the first place and beginning his trademark speech. He really didn’t think that anything was going to come of this--he was just a scrawny kid in muscles and a spandex costume. What did he know about war? Only slightly more than the men and women back in the States, sitting on their behinds, eating fat off of the labors of people like Bucky and his men over in Europe, fighting off the Nazis. Not that everyone, or even most of the people, were, but the rich people had spat on Steve one too many times for him to be okay with the fact that they were avoiding the draft and weaseling out of a war to protect their home, his home, a home that they had too many times told him was not his to claim. Everyone capable of fighting should have to fight, he reasoned, and those that didn’t were simply wrong, and needed to look to God to find their inner peace after a sin such as this. Father Matthew had been talking about Jesus’s parable of Lazarus and the rich man, of how it was the responsibility of the US to be a good country and push the dogs away from Lazarus’s sores, to help Europe in its time of need.

Bucky’d thought that was all bullshit. “Shit of a bull, ya know,” he’d say, warming up a can of soup on the stove, soup that Steve knew he hadn’t paid for but pretended not to. Bucky would make him eat it anyways, and it wasn’t worth getting into a fight about this time, especially since Steve knew he’d taken it from Martha Dougherty down the block, who had a fiance in the mafia and got none of her money cleanly. But that was before Bucky’d been drafted and hidden the draft letter, grinning at Steve across the table talking shit about being a hero and other crap Steve knew he didn’t care shit about, and then he’d just been gone, and the blankets were too thin even though Steve had twice as much and he missed his Bucky more than he’d ever missed anyone in his entire life. It was different than his mother, because he knew that Bucky was still out there, still coming back, but not quite here yet. But that was nothing, he knew, to what he’d feel when Bucky was actually off in Europe, half-dead, always on the brink of not coming back.

But now he was in Europe, a fancy show monkey, talking out of his ass to a group of soldiers that didn’t deserve his horseshit. He just wanted to fight, to be helpful for once in his goddamn life, but at every turn, he was shut down by his handlers. Mary, mother of Jesus, he had handlers. He knew what Bucky would say if he were here. “Damn, Rodgers,” he’d grin, cocky and self-sure, but still slouched like he was before he went off to basic. “Damn, Rodgers, you got yourself some real, honest-to-god handlers. Thinking you’re important enough to handle.” Then he’d laugh. “They’re right about that, at least, you are important, but ain’t nobody gonna be able to handle your skinny ass. You’re unhandleable, Stevie, just a fucking savage animal.” He’d grin, and Steve would push him in the shoulder, rolling his eyes.

“Aw, shut up Buck, stop taking a piss.” And Bucky’d laugh and ruffle his hair. Or, well, Steve didn’t know how tall he was now, so maybe Bucky wouldn’t. Maybe Bucky wouldn’t like it, him being a furnace now, all tall and muscled and with proper circulation and everything. A real, bona fide human being, instead of a skeleton with three pages of medical issues. But he’d never know unless this war ended, and he realistically didn’t know when that would be.

He felt bad, going up there, but they said jump, and he jumped, then asked how high, He belonged to the government, he knew, and being mocked was worth it if he could raise money for the war effort, then he’d step onto stage and give the worst speech of his life to a group of men that he could never compare to, no matter the reels or bonds that he sold, because they were risking their lives, and he was just going on tour and turning down cute dancers because he’d been in love with his best friend since before he even knew what love was.

When you looked at it that way, it sounded kind of sad, but it really wasn’t. It was fairly alright, even if he did have to confess it every Sunday to Father Matthew. He got money drawing racy pictures of girls that looked like the ones Bucky always got them double dates with, the girls that ignored him to hang of of his best friend’s every word. But Bucky had been convinced that they’d get their own apartments one day, and they’d live on the same floor, raise their kids nearby, and share the bathroom. Steve would have liked that, he knew, even when he looked at Bucky and thought, _I would give you everything if you’d let me_.

Steve’s mouth had been going on autopilot, and when he finished with the classic “How many of you are ready to help me sock old Adolf in the jaw?” he looked out into the sea of unimpressed faces, and knew that what he’d known from the beginning was right. They deserved better. But he wasn’t allowed to go off-script, wasn’t allowed to do anything else. The people in charge of him had been pretty damn clear about that. They’d also been pretty damn clear about the fact that they knew where Bucky was, and could affect where he was stationed, and Steve was not too good a man to be able to give up his best friend.

“Steve?” The call was from the back of the crowd, with disbelief and horror lacing the words.

“Shit,” he muttered, and then winced when the microphone caught it. This newfangled technology was really working too well. Bucky would probably know a lot about that sort of stuff--he was obsessed with anything that ran on electricity. Oh, god, hopefully it wasn’t Bucky. Maybe one of the O’Reiley brothers? There had been 12 of them, all from the same tenement, and they’d all volunteered for the army about a month before Bucky’d been drafted. It was possible that it was any number of the people Bucky worked with down by the docks--he sketched his designs there during the warmer months, because the air was cleaner and irritated his chest less, and the guys always loved his drawings. But a lot of those guys were illegals, and had avoided the draft, and there were some mafia and Murder, Inc. guys from down the street, but only a few of them had been caught and shipped off.

“What the _hell_ are you doing, Steven Grant?” Oh, shit, it was Bucky. Well, there went all hope of retaining any dignity. The crowd had started to murmur, guys elbowing each other and laughing, and it looked like two guys in front of him had just started a betting pool. “And why the everliving shit are you so tall?” Bucky’d stood up, gaping in his righteous anger, and he looked kind of like an avenging angel. The crowd gaped more, and Steve had to fight the blush that was rising in his cheeks. He had enough extraneous blood now to blush. That was cool, but Bucky was right in front of him like some sort of Milton invention, and shit that was attractive, but Steve knew that drawing his best friend would have to wait.

He froze, and so Bucky continued. “Seriously, Steve, this is why we can’t have nice things. I’ve barely been gone any time at all, and this shit happens? Seriously?” The whispering got louder, until distinct voices could be heard above the murmur.

“You mean Buchanan’s Steve? I thought he was smaller?” That was an asian looking man near the back.

“He was definitely smaller, Morita, shut your damn mouth. You’ve been subjected to those damn pictures just as much as the rest of us. No way that’s the kid with Barnes in all those.” This came from an African American man near the front.

“Shut your damn fool mouth, Jones. Those pictures are a work of art, and you’re lucky I let you see any of them. They belong in a museum.” Bucky turned to glare at the man--Jones, Steve guessed--without any heat.

“Aw, shut up, Barnes, we don’t want to hear about that guy any more. Please. I mean, he sounds like a swell guy and all, but you literally never shut up about him, and no one deserves that sort of punishment for being a good guy.”

“You’re all the worst. But no, that’s definitely Stevie.” Bucky looked back up at him, and Steve realized that he had to do something.

So, he made the mature, adult decision that should have been made in the situation, and decided that running away was really the best option. He turned away to go backstage, Bucky’s voice following him. “You think I can’t recognize the guy who I slept next to last February? On the floor, Jesus, we can’t afford a fucking bed, and we could only afford one blanket.” Than was true. Last winter had been hard on them, but somehow, Steve hadn’t gotten pneumonia that year.

“Get your punk ass back here, Rogers, or I swear to God, I’ll beat your face in for real this time!” Bucky shouted when he noticed Steve running. So in response, he picked up the pace. Steve burst backstage, panting, and glanced around at the three, very surprised faces that he was presented with.

“Why the hell did no one tell me this was the hundred and seventh?” he bit out, vibrating from nerves, and shit, just because he was now a super soldier killing machine didn’t make him immune to panic attacks.

“Um, we didn’t think it was relevant?” Peggy said, her eyes asking him what was wrong, and he just shook his head, rushing to the changing rooms so that he at least didn’t have to face his best friend in a spandex superhero costume. _Again_ , his brain supplied, and he resisted the urge to slam his head into a wall, repeatedly, until it turned out to have been just a dream.

**Author's Note:**

> this was written in like an hour and a half, with minimal editing, so if there's anything wrong with it, please let me know, either here or at my tumblr, we-do-not-sow.tumblr.com
> 
> reviews and kudos actually enable my survival, not food or water (wink wink nudge nudge) please I need validation


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